


Fight Me

by ladyxdarcy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Based on a Tumblr Post, Hospital, Hurt Sherlock, Light Angst, M/M, Nurse John, Patient Sherlock, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Tumblr, pre-ASiP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 13:30:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14333472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyxdarcy/pseuds/ladyxdarcy
Summary: Based on the tumblr post where OP is stuck in hospital and keeps telling their nurse to fight them.***“Fight me,” Sherlock growled from beneath his mountain of pillows.A short chuckle sounded, before his hiding spot was slowly and carefully removed from his face, causing the brunette man to squint into the sudden light and scowl up at the nurse who was smiling down at him. “Maybe later,” the man chuckled again, his blue eyes swirling with mirth, before returning to going over Sherlock’s vitals.He was going to kill Lestrade.





	Fight Me

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to completely strip John of his doctorship, so I fudged the lines a little bit and made him just take a job as a nurse. Completely improbable, but hey, that's fanfiction.

Sherlock hated being stuck in hospital. It wasn’t his fault the case ended up with him in the bloody Thames in the dead of winter with a cracked rib and abdominal bruising. He could have easily seen to his injuries at home, even with the bad cold he’d seemed to have picked up from the freezing water he’d been submerged in the previous day, but Lestrade had rejected that idea immediately. The idiot.

No, Lestrade had, irritatingly enough, all but manhandled Sherlock into the back of the ambulance and had gotten in with him, no doubt to keep Sherlock from jumping out at the first potential opportunity. Though Sherlock’s symptoms probably could have been treatable at home, he had also strong-armed the hospital staff and made it very clear that Sherlock was to remain checked in until he or Sherlock’s brother signed him out.

Apparently, the staff had no interest in disobeying a police officer as they readily agreed and so far had kept a very strict eye on the sick and injured consulting detective, despite Sherlock’s less than pleasant demeanour. He was pretty sure he made his first doctor not only pass him over to a colleague, but also made him cry with his observations of the man’ home life based on the state of his wedding ring, hem of his trousers, and obviously home dyed thinning hair.

All this left Sherlock in a very poor mood, of course, made worse by his runny nose, persistent cough, and body aches. The coughing didn’t help much with his fractured rib or bruised stomach either, however, and Sherlock longed for the sweet oblivion of death, or something like it. Instead he was stuck with a constant parade of nurses who kept checking up on his vitals and furtively making certain he hadn’t tried to escape…again.

Sherlock did his best to supress another cough, groaning from where he hid under the pile of extra pillows he had demanded, wondering if maybe he could just suffocate himself and be done with it. Especially as he heard the familiar approach of a nurse. Lovely.

Uneven footfalls. Slight hesitation of the right leg. Limp. Even though Sherlock had only been there a day, he seemed to have already made a reputation of himself, and very few nurses or other staff willingly entered into his room. He preferred it that way, honestly, but this one didn’t seem wary at all. Yet.

Sherlock would have dearly loved to rip into this new nurse with all his observations intact, but the truth was that, despite his chart no doubt telling of his earlier stint with recreational narcotics, the medical staff apparently thought it better to keep him at least mildly drugged to prevent him from causing too much trouble to both them and himself. He wondered if Lestrade sanctioned it. He supposed it was the only benefit of being stuck there; free drugs.

All this meant, of course, was that Sherlock’s mind wasn’t at his best, especially considering he was also physically unwell and running a low fever from his illness as well as from his injuries. Which really only left him with one course of action.

“Fight me,” he growled from beneath his mountain of pillows.

A short chuckle sounded, before his hiding spot was slowly and carefully removed from his face, causing the brunette man to squint into the sudden light and scowl up at the nurse who was smiling down at him. “Maybe later,” the man chuckled again, his blue eyes swirling with mirth, before returning to going over Sherlock’s vitals.

He was going to kill Lestrade. It was utterly humiliating being stuck here, treated like an infant. (He ignored, of course, how it was his own childish behaviour that really brought on said treatment.)

Face now unobscured, Sherlock turned his head to better take in the man frowning at his drip bag and then at his chart. Tan, fading but still there, though not above his wrists which Sherlock could easily see in the short-sleeved scrubs. Hair closely cut though growing out. Despite apparent limp the man stood squarely on both feet when at rest, a stiff uniformity to the sharp line of his back. Left hand trembled ever so slightly, flexed fingers curled into a fist, released, back to the vitals. Thin. The scrubs, already unflattering on almost anyone, hung loosely over the man’s short frame. Dark bags under eyes that a moment ago had been sparkling with mirth but were now returned to a dull blue.

Sherlock saw all this, took in everything he could, but it took too long for the observations to properly form into thoughts. By the time Sherlock’s lips mumbled out, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” the nurse was already gone.

\- - - - - - - - -

Sherlock _hated_ the hospital. He thought dearly of his own oft neglected bed at home and vowed to never take it for granted again. He’d give his left lung to be back there now, and away from the poking and prodding of the nurses. He’d fallen asleep, weak from his physical condition, and missed the next time the limping nurse the next time he came in so he couldn’t ask him his question again, and the next nurse he saw was an older austere woman who reminded him slightly of his Uncle Rudy in appearance and his old nanny from his boyhood in personality.

He scowled, thought about asking her to fight him too, before ultimately thinking better of it. He did throw a few choice observations her way, however, and felt a little bit better about himself afterwards. At least his mind was a little clearer. For now.

Lestrade visited, and though there was a slight furrow of concern at one of Sherlock’s coughing fits, he still happily pulled out his phone and took copious of pictures of a petulant Sherlock. Even Sherlock sending a two-fingered salute in some of the pictures didn’t dampen the DI’s good humour, which annoyed Sherlock to no end.

Mycroft did not visit— _thank god_ —but he did send flowers with a pointedly mocking card, which Sherlock immediately had binned. It turned out, however, that they did not stay that way for long.

“Why are these flowers tossed out?” a voice that sounded almost familiar asked, and Sherlock looked up from his phone to scowl at the person who had interrupted him. It was the nurse from earlier. The limping one. Except…

“You’re not a nurse,” Sherlock pointed out.

The man, picking up the bouquet from the rubbish, froze. He turned his gaze from the brightly coloured petals to the injured man in the bed, and Sherlock could see a tick of the man’s jaw where he’d clenched it shut. Ah. Struck a nerve, apparently.

“Excuse me?” the not-nurse said, standing at his full (which wasn’t much) height, hands crinkling the plastic surrounding the flowers for a moment before he consciously relaxed his grip.

“You’re not a nurse,” Sherlock repeated, despite not caring to repeat himself normally. “I’ve seen you three times reach as though for a coat pocket, and whenever someone says the word ‘doctor’ outside the room you automatically turn to look. You’re not normally a nurse.”

The man simply stood staring at him for several long moments more, before releasing a short exhale of air through his nose and shaking his head. “You’re right, and wrong. I am a nurse, currently. That is my role here, but I was a doctor before.” The man shrugged. “Can’t be picky when you need a job. They only had nurse positions open, and I technically have the medical knowledge for it, so…”

The man moved forward, placing the flowers on the bedside table, causing Sherlock to scowl at them. Hateful things. He’d bin them again later. He had more important things to discuss.

“I suppose surgery would be out of the question too, what with your hand tremor. Surprised they hired you at all with your limp, even if it is psychosomatic, due to the rapid pace of hospitals. But then, I suppose it’s not truly an issue if it’s only psychosomatic. You should really fire your therapist, by the way. Which reminds me. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The doctor/nurse stood frozen for several moments before blinking quickly and licking his lips. “Sorry, do I know you?” He shook his head. “How did you know all that?” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, before swallowing. “And it was Afghanistan.”

Sherlock snorted. “It’s obvious. You have a tan that doesn’t reach past your wrists, so you’ve been abroad recently but not for pleasure, coupled with your haircut and the way you hold yourself speaks of military. So most likely Afghanistan or Iraq. Wounded in action no doubt, traumatic going by your hand and your limp, which you seem to forget whenever you’re standing, so psychosomatic. You were inured elsewhere. Shoulder most likely, given your hand, though that’s really nothing to do with nerve damage, or at least not a lot of it. Your hand is steady when you’re distracted. Another psychological symptom. So really, obvious you have a therapist, and a rubbish one at that. Fire them.”

The man just blinked at Sherlock again, seemingly at a loss for words, before taking in a deep breath. “That was…”

Sherlock pursed his lips, waiting.

“Incredible. That was amazing, really.”

“What?” Sherlock asked after a moment, certain he’d misheard. “Amazing?”

“Of course it was,” the doctor/nurse laughed, even if he did look a little rueful at his life being displayed so openly like that. “I’d heard you said things to upset the other nurses and Doctor Roberts, but…that was just something else.”

Sherlock was left adrift. He could have said that that’s not what people normally said. He could have made a joke about, seen how this doctor in nurse’s clothing reacted, but something lodged itself in Sherlock’s throat and he couldn’t get the words out. Instead, what came out was:

“Fight me.”

The doctor/nurse laughed again, smile growing. “You should probably eat something first.”

Sherlock pouted, and turned away with a cough.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The next few days passed in much the same fashion, and though Sherlock’s bone and bruising slowly began healing, his cold seemed to linger on. His fever spiked during one night, but thankfully lowered itself by the next morning, but it left Sherlock on slightly stronger medicine to try to help relieve both it and his continued coughing fits, which only aggravated his injuries.

The doctor/nurse, whose name he found out was John, visited him in his room probably more than was strictly necessary, and just gave Sherlock an amused look whenever the detective told him to fight him, which was frequently all Sherlock could tell him. If it wasn’t Sherlock sleepy or drugged and barely able to string together a coherent thought, it was Sherlock completely flabbergasted by the fact that Nurse John seemed to not be put off at all by Sherlock’s continued observations, which always left Sherlock feeling vaguely discomfited and hiding behind invitations to fight.

John always had something to say as well, from a “maybe later” to a “not while I’m working,” which oddly enough just left Sherlock feeling even more flustered. Especially when it soon became obvious that John would sometimes stop by even when he wasn’t there to fiddle with Sherlock’s equipment, and even if they didn’t really talk much, Sherlock found that he was oddly looking forward to those brief moments when John would enter his room.

And then Lestrade had to go and ruin it by visiting him again.

Sherlock hadn’t thought much of it, Lestrade had visited him before after all, and the man was keen on keeping him in bed to prevent further injury, so it hardly seemed to far out of the ordinary. No doubt his brother had desired the DI to visit as well, since he knew he wouldn’t be welcomed himself as well as hardly wishing to make the travel for something so benign, which Sherlock barely tolerated. Better than Mycroft himself or any of his other goons.

However, then John entered the room, and Sherlock suddenly saw everything in a new light. Lestrade was leaning forward in his chair by the bed, lips curled down in mild concern at another coughing fit of Sherlock’s, his hand settled lightly over Sherlock where wrist met arm. Lestrade’s familiarity with Sherlock would be evident even to an idiot, and John was no idiot. Well. Not like most people were idiots.

John’s brow puckered slightly, his eyes going to where Lestrade’s hand rest on Sherlock’s, before his lips thinned and his expression lost the earnestness it’d previously been sporting and fell into an impassive professionality. Sherlock yanked his hand away from under Lestrade’s grip, which wasn’t entirely effective as the man was already releasing his hold to reach for the water set nearby and holding it out for Sherlock to drink from the offensively bright straw sticking out of it in hopes of soothing the younger man’s coughing.

Sherlock attempted to bat the cup of now room temperature water aside, but Lestrade was persistent, huffing at him like he was a child, and Sherlock only refrained from sticking his tongue out at the DI because he couldn’t stop coughing.

“You really should drink more water, Mr Holmes,” John said mildly, moving to check Sherlock’s vitals once he saw the man reluctantly finally obey and drink from the blasted neon straw. Sherlock, wheezing slightly but no longer feeling like he was choking on dust or wood shaving, watched John unnecessarily fiddle with his monitors. Someone else had just recently been in. His vitals didn’t need to be checked. John came during a brief moment of free time.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at Lestrade as John glanced once more at the pair of them before turning to leave. That wasn’t what he wanted at all.

“Fight me,” Sherlock rasped out, waiting hopefully as John paused in the doorway. His spirit plummeted however when John simply continued on without saying another word.

Lestrade blinked and reared back slightly in confusion at the acidic glare sent his way by the younger man in the bed. “What?”

Sherlock groaned, grabbing a pillow and covering his own face.

\- - - - - - - - - -

“Fight me,” Sherlock said the next time he saw John.

John ignored him, continuing his discussion with the now bewildered doctor who came to oversee how Sherlock was doing. Information parted, he glanced at Sherlock before giving the doctor a nod and leaving the room to give them privacy.

Sherlock scowled and paid no attention to the doctor. Tedious.

\- - - - - - - - - -

John didn’t visit the next day.

Day off? Sherlock hoped it was a day off.

He made another nurse cry instead.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Sherlock groaned, coughing into his pillow as he slowly woke up, weakly rubbing at where drool had leaked out of his open mouth. He hated how often he was dozing here. He just wanted to be back in his flat. Not that the rundown old place would be any good for him, he was certain. Perhaps it was finally time for him to move. A former client of his had mentioned she had rooms to rent out, and he had actually grown rather comfortable with the older woman during that particular case. Normally wives wanted to pay him to prevent their husband’s death, and her insistence that it take place had been rather refreshing. Yes, perhaps he’d give her a ring…

“Interesting bloke, that detective inspector,” a by now familiar voice sounded from the chair next to his bed, startling Sherlock fully awake. “Hey, easy now,” the voice said, and a fresh cup of water was being held out to him to help with his coughing fit.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, taking in the view of his nurse sitting by his bedside.

John looked momentarily abashed, a slight pink to his cheeks. “Sorry I’ve been…busy lately.”

Sherlock grimaced as the cold water worked over his abused throat, knowing he was probably going to be hoarse for a while with how much he was coughing lately. Thankfully his injuries were on the mend. Perhaps he might even be able to escape the hospital soon, though…

John smiled at him, setting the cup of water aside. “He told me a little bit more about what you do.”

“Who did?” Sherlock asked once he felt like he could again without coughing all over himself.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade. He said you work together, that you’re like a freelance investigator.”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock corrected with a small annoyed frown. “And we don’t _work together_ , he calls me to solve his crimes when they’re out of their depth, which is always.”

John snorted, rolling his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, but he was smiling. No rush, still wearing scrubs, condiment against his cuticles. It took Sherlock far too long to put together that John was currently on his lunch break. And visiting Sherlock. Again. Finally.

“He told me he’s known you about five years now. That you guys really just have a working relationship, but that he cares about you.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to snort. “He’s my glorified handler,” he muttered, but his cheeks tinged slightly pink. John saw Lestrade touching him. John left. Lestrade told him they were only professional. John came back. That meant something, but Sherlock was far to inexperienced in social interactions to understand what.

“He also said you were a bit of a twat,” John grinned.

Sherlock inhaled as though offended. “Fight me,” he tried to say, but the sudden intake of oxygen sent him into another coughing fit he couldn’t control, until the straw for his cup of water was placed at his lips again.

John, army trained with strength hidden beneath his scrubs, just looked at the pale and thin consulting detective and simply smiled. “I won’t fight you because I know you’d win.”

Once he could breathe again, Sherlock felt the corner of his lips curl ever so slightly in an answering smile.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The rest of Sherlock’s time in hospital was spent similarly as he healed, with John stopping by whenever he had a free moment, even on the days he wasn’t scheduled to work. Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it, but he found that he strangely rather enjoyed John’s company. More than he would like to admit.

They spoke more about Sherlock’s job, some of his past cases, and amazingly enough John seemed completely enraptured by them. He laughed whenever Sherlock made deductions, as long as they weren’t offensive, and never failed to say “amazing,” “incredible,” “wonderful,” which really made Sherlock flush a little too often for his liking. John’s eyes always sparkled when he spoke to him, and maybe Sherlock was imagining it, but he sometimes thought he saw John walking without a limp.

It was…extraordinary.

When the day came for Sherlock to finally be released from the prison of his hospital bed, Sherlock felt…not as overjoyed as he had thought he would be. Something tugged at him, and he had an idea of what it was. He fiddled with the button of his suit jacket, hesitating, wondering if he’d show up, if he even knew…

A knock sounded at the door. “Sherlock?”

A grin spread across Sherlock’s face before he could control it, forcing him to have to hesitate before opening the curtains around his bed where he’d changed. He looked at John, the scrubs sitting on him perhaps just as imposingly as his fatigues once had, and Sherlock’s eyes crinkled into a much more controlled smile. “Ah, John.”

“I heard it was your last day. I was hoping to catch you before you left.” John looked nervous, embarrassed almost, and he cleared his throat and held out a paper travelling mug from the gift shop. “I, uh, brought you coffee.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, blinking in surprise before reaching out to take the warm mug, suppressing a shiver when his and John’s fingers touched just a little too lingeringly. “Thank you.” The words were awkward and foreign on his lips, unused to speaking them genuinely, but John smiled all the same. He had a truly beautiful smile.

“Um…” John licked his bottom lip, drawing it into his mouth after, and Sherlock had to remind himself not to stare. “Detective Inspector Lestrade is finishing up the paperwork to release you. I should…get back to my rounds.”

“Right,” Sherlock said a little disappointed.

John hesitated a moment more before lifting a hand in farewell. The hand was steady. “See ya, Sherlock,” he said with another small smile. His eyes darted to the cup in Sherlock’s hand, looking like he wanted to say something else, before he slipped out the door and hurriedly escaped down the brightly lit hallway.

Sherlock cleared his throat, looking after the man until he was out of sight, before drawing in a deep breath. Right. Time to go home. Feeling like a weight was settling over his chest, Sherlock left the hospital room without looking back.

It didn’t take long to find Lestrade, who was striding down the hallways with purpose. The grey-haired man caught sight of Sherlock, his relief at finding the younger man _not_ making mischief palpable.

“All ready to go?” he asked, but before Sherlock could send him a cutting remark about obviousness, his brows furrowed in mild confusion as he took in Sherlock’s cup. “What’s that say on your cup?”

Sherlock paused, frowned, looking down and moving his cup to see writing on the side of it. He mentally berated himself for not being more observant, until he actually read what was written. There was a phone number there, with the words:

_Fight me_

Sherlock’s lips spread into a grin.

Right. Perhaps the hospital wasn’t so bad after all.

Ignoring Lestrade, Sherlock merrily began his way towards the street. He’d have to call Mrs Hudson and tell her he’d take the flat.

He wondered how John felt about the violin.

*****

**Author's Note:**

> I really need to stop letting these inspirations and prompts attack me. I have schoolwork and chaptered stories I'm trying to finish, and instead I can't help but write these. Oh well.
> 
> Also, find my Tumblr at [ladyxdarcy.tumblr.com ](http://ladyxdarcy.tumblr.com)!


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